


Smile For Me

by itsyourownpersonaljesus



Category: Geography (Anthropomorphic)
Genre: Brotherly Bonding, Family Feels, Fluff and Humor, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Light Angst, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Minor Character Death, Minor Injuries, Platonic Relationships, Temporary Character Death, Time Skips, Timeline What Timeline, america loves his family but can't admit it and aint that a mood, background brance because i have no self control, i mean...they're not minor but they are when you're immortal, i wrote this in literally one day and it usually takes me weeks please go easy on me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-12
Updated: 2020-03-12
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:55:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23114308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsyourownpersonaljesus/pseuds/itsyourownpersonaljesus
Summary: America and Canada, through a few centuries and seven summers.or, seven times america and canada share smiles, even if the other doesn't always see it
Relationships: America & Canada, Canada & United States (Anthropomorphic), France/United Kingdom (Anthropomorphic), Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 64





	Smile For Me

**Author's Note:**

> i have writer's block and so i wrote this instead of working on decennial im so sorry

Canada was French.

America was English.

They were natural enemies, right?

France and England hated each other, their bordering colonies were just another way of competing with each other for the best, brightest, shiniest overseas empire. Their colonies may be separate enough to form minds outside their motherlands, but they were still only used for the benefit of their European rulers, disputes between them used to settle scores between the two empires.

So, when a very young America, hardly yet a whole and still an unstable sum of his parts, came across a young, still French Canada while exploring some of his nearly uninhabited Northern territory, they should’ve fought, right?

America had come upon a river, two days of walking, looking for what he knew not, had his body aching for fresh water and rest. Approaching the gurgling brook, five or so feet in width but deceptively deep, he spotted Canada, stone encircled campfire behind him, gutting and filleting fish from the woven basket next to him. He sat on a large round stone, laying the fresh cuts of meat on the smooth, sun-speckled rocks next to him.

As America’s mind churned rapidly through his admittedly few options (running, hiding, unslinging and loading his rifle), his foot snaps a small branch on the forest floor that he’d missed. Canada’s eyes were on him in an instant.

He stared at America, wide-eyed.

America stared back.

For a minute.

For a minute more.

Truthfully, America didn’t want to get caught up in another border dispute now, he was tired and thirsty and the last thing he wanted to do was explain to the British Empire how he managed to get involved in another costly squabble with France.

He raised his hands slowly, palms facing Canada. His French was somewhere between rusty and nonexistent, “Je...” What was ‘come’ again? Oh right– “viens en...” God, nouns were not his strong suit, “...peace?” He cringed inwardly at his lack of knowledge in the language while Canada cringed outwardly at his pronunciation. 

He looked confused for a moment, mouth moving in the shape of America’s words, vocalizing “Peace. Peace?” most likely running through his limited English dictionary, “Peace... Ah– paix?”

America hoped it was a correct translation, “Yes– or, uh, oui? Oui.”

Canada smiled, shoulders relaxing, “Moi aussi.” He said wryly, though there was an edge of uncertainty one often has when speaking with a potential threat.

It was as much invitation as America needed; he kneeled, shedding his pack and filling his canteen with urgency, gulping down water in an unseemly manner, as though the touch of water against his lips increased his thirst by ten-fold. Filling his canteen a second, third time, his pace slowed. His body’s need for water sated, he shifted his seat on the ground, leaning back against his pack and relaxing in the shade of the oak trees, it must be around one o’clock now, but he didn’t check his watch.

He listened to the sporadic bird song, obscure rustling in the leaves around him, the languid flow of the water next to him, and Canada’s knife gliding through the flesh of fish.

His eyes closed against his will, but he didn’t complain. It’d been a while since he had been this relaxed, though he probably shouldn’t be, with Canada right next to him. Though maybe, just maybe, Canada was like him, tired of being a pawn in the affairs of larger empires.

America dreamt of open fields facing the setting sun, a feeling of freedom expanding and filling his chest. Of turning on what he knew to discover what he didn’t.

He woke slowly, to late afternoon sun finding its way through the branches of thick forest. There was a small metal plate of cooked fish by his head.

He smiled.

  


* * *

  


“ _You_ started this war!”

“I started nothing, I defended my colony against _your_ invasion!”

France threw his hands in the air, arguing in rapid fire French that America struggled to translate before ending his tirade in, “You should get _nothing_ , let alone _my_ American territory, you absolute barbarian.”

Britain’s anger flared and America stared at him, nervous, hands wringing anxiously. “You _lost_ France!” Britain’s voice boomed through the large conference room. “Either surrender your land to me or meet me on the battlefield so I can prove your incompetence a second time!”

America turned his attention to Canada, who sat next to him at the round mahogany table, where a pile of papers detailing a myriad of terms of surrender sat, awaiting signatures, Britain and France’s incessant arguing faded into nothing more than background noise.

Canada sat with his head down, occasionally glancing nervously between the two superpowers and the pile of papers on the table. Those papers would decide his fate, America knew, and France had lost, meaning Canada’s life may be changing drastically after this treaty.

He couldn’t help but feel a bit guilty, he had started this war, technically, and it had spiraled into something far out of any war he could have imagined coming from a misunderstanding of borders and a ‘who shot first’ situation, but leave it to Britain and France to turn it into a seven year long global conflict.

He could remember the end of the war, clear as day. Britain and his unyielding force supporting America’s scattered, injured army. Hoisting a wounded, barely conscientious Canada to his feet and shoving him toward America, he barked out an order that America hardly had the presence of mind to understand. Something along the lines of “Hold Canada, and don’t let him escape!”, which America did, albeit with shaking hands.

His grip wasn’t strong, but Canada didn’t seem terribly keen on trying to run– where would he go? They were both enraptured by the scene in front of them, Britain stalking across a body-strewn battlefield toward France, who had just struggled to his feet, spitting blood onto the ground in front of him.

“It’s over France.” Britain said, reloading his bayonet and aiming it at France, “Surrender.” America wasn’t sure if anyone else saw Britain sway slightly where he stood, wasn’t sure if anyone else knew that even the Great British Empire couldn’t continue much longer.

France spat again and smiled with blood stained teeth, “Jamais.”

Britain shot him where he stood.

America felt Canada physically flinch as France’s body crumpled to the ground, whispering last words heard by none.

Here, in this meeting, he felt a twinge of sympathy for Canada, who would most likely soon be part of a country whose language he didn’t even speak, subject to Britain’s arrogant dismissal of colonial opinion and over taxation. Canada may soon be his _brother_ of a sort. He should probably brush up on his French.

America slid his foot across the hardwood floor until it hit Canada’s, the other snapping his head up to look at him, confusion and a touch of fear written on his face.

America only smiled at him, hoping to convey his pure intentions, a camaraderie and companionship in their soon-to-be mutual colonial arrangement. He hoped to convey an end to their forced rivalry, a shared experience, brotherhood, fraternité.

Canada gave him a small, grateful smile and America felt like he’d done his duty as an older brother, even though Canada’s first European settlement had been three years before his.

  


* * *

  


After eight long years of war and an eventual victory over _The Great British Empire_ , America enjoyed his newly won freedom with only two regrets: that he hadn’t broken away with a more stable government (Congress was a _disaster_ so far), and that he may have lost his friendship with Canada.

They’d fought, when America had first declared he was breaking from the Empire’s clutches, Canada hadn’t understood his position and America couldn’t find the right words to explain. Impassioned, persuasive speeches had never been his strong suit. Even his own citizens, the ones loyal to the crown, fled north to the Canadian border, working against America’s dreams of freedom.

He’d met Canada on the battlefield during the war a handful of times, but it was Britain’s main forces he defeated in the end, with the help of France, of course.

It was now July 10th, 1784, almost a year since the war ended, and he hadn’t seen nor heard from Canada once. They hadn’t been under the same rule very long, hardly over a decade, before America broke away, but he still felt a bond with the other that he mourned the loss of.

A knock at his door shook him from his thoughts and he trudged to the door slowly, sweltering summer heat making his home on the Eastern seaboard nearly uninhabitable.

“Mail for you Sir.” The postal worker at the door said hurriedly, starting the sentence before America had even completely opened the door. He seemed to be in a rush to get through deliveries, probably hoping to get out of the heat as soon as possible. America took the stack of envelopes from the man and thanked him, letting him continue on his way, before thumbing through his short stack of papers.

A newspaper.

A letter from a friend of his down South.

A letter from Britain, likely responding to the matters of trade America had inquired about.

And a letter from...Canada.

Speak of the Devil.

America opened the letter with fervor, reading the contents therein. Eyes gliding over the words once, twice, three times.

_Dear United States of America,_

_May I still call you ‘America’? I know it is technically inaccurate, but your new name is quite long and may be cumbersome to call you in conversation. France, I know, calls you ‘États Unis’, which I find much more pleasant, though I may be biased._

_Regardless, I wanted to wish you a happy birthday, so, Bon Anniversaire! This letter may arrive late but I do hope it’s close enough to still count. We don’t really get to celebrate birthdays, exact dates get lost to history, you know, but thinking it over last night, I figured_ you _actually_ can _celebrate a birthday. And, going by your declaration would make you nine years old, which I suppose makes me the undisputed elder, since you’re nine, and I’m about one hundred and eighty._

_I won’t pretend to fully understand your reasons for fighting so hard for this, but I do, sincerely, hope that you have found the happiness you were seeking. I hope, as well, that we may remain as friends, even brothers, if you would allow. I promise I won’t tell Britain._

_Yours,  
Canada_

America smiled, feeling tears run down his cheeks and drip onto the paper in hand when he closed his eyes. It turns out he only has one regret after breaking from Britain.

  


* * *

  


The world was burning around him.

Or maybe it was just the Presidential Mansion, aflame, wooden structure smoldering and falling, stone cracking, glass windows shattering with the heat. Soldiers ran past where he lay, he knew not which side they fought for. None of them stopped to help, they probably thought he was already dead.

He felt like he was dying. It wasn’t the first time, but this may be the most painful. Smoke burned in his lungs, making every ragged breath a labor as he lay trapped under a pile of collapsed, burning debris, calling for help even as no sound came out. It was so hot, burned so badly, this whole war had been such a bad idea, he could hardly believe he ever thought he had the forces necessary to challenge Britain once again. His one true ally, he’d lost, afraid to fall to help France two decades ago, and now the other was far too involved in his own war to aid America. No one was coming to help him, he had to find a way out of this one all on his own. Never before had he regretted a decision this much.

His eyes filled with tears, but he blamed it on the smoke.

What had he even been doing here? He couldn’t remember...

Hands grasped him under the arms and pulled him roughly out of the pile of cinder and kindling, continuing to drag him out of the house until his lungs were filled with cold night air and his skin touched the cool grass of the lawn. He took gasping breaths, seemingly unable to truly satisfy his body’s need for oxygen. It didn’t hurt as much anymore, though, he was just...cold.

He wasn’t complaining.

His vision was hazy but he could swear it was Canada leaning over him. He was saying something, words rushed and a touch desperate, face uncertain and worried, but America couldn’t hear him over the roar of the fire in front of them.

America smiled up at Canada, their figures awash in amber light, tried to tell Canada not to worry with his eyes alone, that he would come back stronger and beat the hell out of him and Britain, that he didn’t need to apologize, it was a war after all.

He looked at the sky.

And he died.

America died with his brother leaning over him and the stars in his eyes.

  


* * *

  


They stood on the deck of a steam boat, leaning on the rail, watching the slow construction on the Statue of Liberty, shining copper panels being welded over the steel frame. It was...beautiful. Truly. America didn’t think he’d ever received a gift this glorious, France had outdone himself, surprising many with the lavish copper sculpture, shipped across the Atlantic in a myriad of parts. America had actually had to save up for a pedestal for the damn thing.

He lit a cigarette and breathed in the smoke, offering it to Canada, who took a long drag. So much had changed in less than a century, America was glad he’d had Canada to confide in on occasion, though he didn’t want to admit it.

It was a great big world out there and America was looking to play on the global stage. He would prove himself to the world, it was his destiny, to be the greatest, a country that stretched from sea to shining sea and then beyond, and he would manifest it. He took the cigarette back and took another drag of his own. “How’s partial independence treating you?” He said, looking out at the sea.

“Well, it’s been twenty-ish years and I haven’t died yet, though I’m still being dragged over seas to Britain’s wars. He still has a lot of say in my government but I’m okay with it for the moment.” His voice was calm, contemplative.

America eyed him from the side, “I’m jealous he’s letting you go so easily.”

Canada snorted, “God you’re so dense.” America whipped around to face him, irate defence on his lips, but Canada just laughed lightly, “You yourself called it ‘partial independence,’ I’m not quite off the leash.” He shook his head, “And besides, if you want to talk about jealousy, how about we discuss France, my original founder, choosing _you_ as his favorite?” Canada’s voice had a bitter edge that America didn’t often hear, the other was usually only kind, with occasional sarcastic remarks that went over America’s head, a trait that remained remarkably French, despite all this time.

America felt a smidge of guilt, a twinge of sympathy, “Don’t take it too personally, France and I can bond over revolutions and hating Britain, but he definitely still has a soft spot for you.” Quietly, he added, “And it seems like Britain has chosen you as his favorite, so I suppose we’re both disappointed.”

Canada was quiet for a moment, only humming his assent, before he said, a smile audible in his voice, “France doesn’t hate Britain...You know that, right?”

America did not know that, and it must have shown on his face because Canada suddenly burst into laughter, as though America’s ignorance of Britain and France’s...friendship (No... That wasn’t possible–) was the funniest thing he’d seen in a long while, and maybe it was. America spluttered, “Wh–What else could it be?! Are we talking about the same people?!”

This only caused Canada to laugh harder, to America’s growing frustration. Every time the other tried to explain what, on God’s Green Earth, he was talking about, he only laughed harder. Other passengers were giving them _looks_.

Canada regained his wits with a series of half-laughs, short of breath, wiping excess water from his eyes, “I’ll,” He stopped, unable to continue without chuckling again, “I’ll tell you when you’re older.” And at America’s offended expression, he descended into laughter once again.

America smiled, it was hard to keep serious around infectious laughter, and if there was one thing Canada could do, it was get people to laugh with him.

America looked out to sea, grinning, he had high hopes for the coming decades.

  


* * *

  


America was laying on a carpeted floor, a borrowed pillow under his head and an overloaded backpack on the floor next to him. He watched Canada root around in his own pack, looking for something unbeknownst to America. They were in a second story bedroom, clearly one that was home to a couple of kids, though it had been raided long ago, in a town house somewhere north of Paris. Geography had never been his strong suit.

It was late July, the heat was oppressing.

Britain and France were talking in hushed tones downstairs, the two had practically been glued at the hip since Normandy, though that wasn’t surprising considering... Well,... They’d all been worried about France, but Britain more so than anyone, even as his own cities were barraged by German air raids. 

Seeing them interact now, America was reminded of a conversation he’d had with Canada, more than fifty years back, about the nature of Britain and France’s relationship. He thought he may understand now what Canada had meant.

His companion sighed heavily, running a hand through his hair. America regarded him curiously, “What are you looking for?”

Canada sighed again, “I had a tin where I kept some letters and photos and stuff, but I can’t find it, I’m worried I left in the last town.”

“Letters? From who?”

Canada waved a hand dismissively, “No one you know, just a friend of mine. I’ll never forgive myself if I’ve lost them forever.” He worried his bottom lip between his teeth.

America sat up quickly, “I’ll help you look!” He exclaimed, maybe a bit too loud for their quiet abode, judging by the way the voices downstairs quieted for a moment before continuing.

Of course America wanted to help Canada find something that was important to him. That was the entirety of his motivation in this... Most of his motivation... Some of his motivation. Okay, that was a lie– he just _had_ to know who this mysterious “friend” was. Canada hadn’t told him about anyone special in his life, and America couldn’t deny he felt a bit betrayed.

So, despite Canada’s aborted protest, America set to work tearing the room apart anew. With another sigh, Canada followed suit.

They were ten minutes in and America was about to call it quits when he spotted Canada’s helmet on the small, child-sized dresser in the room, pushed against a wall by one of the barren, stripped beds. He reached for the helmet, lifting it off the wooden dresser, revealing a small, metal card tin underneath.

Without a second thought he exclaimed, “Oh! I think I found it!” Picking it up and tossing it to Canada, who barely looked up in time to catch it.

“Oh my God! This is it! Where’d you find it?!” Disbelief colored Canada’s voice.

“Under here!” America lifted the helmet again for emphasis.

Canada shook his head, opening the tin and grinning into it before closing it again. “Thank you, America. Seriously.”

America felt himself smile back at him, “Yeah of course man, anytime.”

It wasn’t until the middle of the night, between being woken for nightly watch and trying to sleep with the unshakable worry they may be bombed where they lay, that German forces would once again find them, that America realized he never learned the identity of Canada’s mysterious pen pal.

He’d find out eventually.

  


* * *

  


America flopped onto the suade couch in Canada’s southern townhouse with a long groan. Canada hardly looked up from his book, shifting slightly to accommodate America’s invading force in his living space.

“Does it ever get easier?” America’s voice was muffled slightly by the couch cushions.

“Does what get easier?” America heard a page turn in the book.

“ _This_.” He sighed. “ _All_ of this. The questions, the riots, the corruption. Russia sticking his nose in my elections, China harassing me about my debt...” He trailed off, “Life...”

Canada took a deep breath, America heard the book close, “Hey, look at me.”

America did.

“Things, for us, don’t get easier, they just change.” Canada smiled down at him, “You just have to survive long enough to see it happen.”

America worried his lip, “It feels like nothing will ever change, like I’ll be stuck like this forever.”

“Sure it feels like that now, but would you ever have guessed you’d be where you are now back in the 1600’s?”

“...No.”

“Exactly. You just have to remember that nothing is forever when you’re nearly immortal.” Canada said, a surprising amount of wisdom in his words, a side of him that America didn’t often see. “Besides, that guy’s only in office for another few months or so, I’m sure you’ll make it.”

America groaned again, and Canada chuckled, though it wasn’t _at_ America, more with him. And America did breathe a small laugh in spite of himself.

He _was_ happy, overall. Not everything about the 21st century was great, but he’d come a long way and did enjoy the people around him, the life he’d made in the country he fought to create, fought to become.

Maybe he wasn’t always the greatest country on earth, but he loved his nation, the people therein, his friends, and his family, and sometimes, that was all he needed.

He smiled. 

  


**Author's Note:**

> hi guys! thanks for reading this, i know it's not my typical over saturated, over written dumpster fire, but that's cause i wrote it in a literal day so please put any inaccuracies in my margin of error box- all the 7yrs war stuff was pulled from my memory of last semester's classes so please also forgive the lack of research
> 
> Honestly let me know who canada's mystery friend is cause i have no clue
> 
> the french:  
> moi aussi: me too  
> jamais: never  
> i think the rest is self explanatory
> 
> someone please take my pen away


End file.
